


Sherlock Holmes and the case of the poisoned wife

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson journal, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Holmes is called to investigate a woman's poisoning. All the evidence leads to her husband, a tattooist, but his assistant insists that he is innocent.





	Sherlock Holmes and the case of the poisoned wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).



> For Iwantthatcoat: I hope I have well interpreted the elements you wanted!
> 
> Many thanks to [Alexisriversong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/pseuds/alexisriversong) for the beta work on the story!

_ From the unedited journal of Dr. John H. Watson _

 

It was a cold November morning when Holmes came into my bedroom to wake me up, shaking my shoulder.

I had long since stopped being irritated by his behaviour, that, in the eyes of a gentleman, would appear appalling.

The nature of our relationship had changed a few months before, and it made no sense to be irritated by the invasion of my personal space, since we shared the  same bed.

Rather, I was still surprised by Holmes's ability to wake up at the crack of dawn without the aid of an alarm clock, to slip back into his room, a necessary precaution in case Mrs Hudson or some morning customer had knocked on the austere black door of Baker Street asking for our help.

Discretion was a matter of survival for us, as the time and society were hostile to those like us.

Indeed, at the beginning of our new relationship, Holmes was hesitant to pursuit it: he feared that my acting skills weren’t good enough to conceal my feelings for him, but with time, I hope I managed to surprise him.

I must say that what was at the stakes made me extremely scrupulous, far beyond my abilities.

But I’m digressing, and Holmes will scold me about it as soon as he finds this journal, because no matter how hard I try to find new hiding places, he always finds it.

 

That Monday morning , Holmes had a sparkling light in his eyes that I knew very well.

"Do we have a client?"

He looked pleased as he spoke to me: “My dear Watson, your deductive abilities are improving, even though you haven't had your morning tea yet. Come down, I sense there’s an interesting story to hear."

Our guest was a man in his late twenties, wearing a fine suit, but not overly elegant. He was sweaty and nervous, to the point that he almost knocked over the cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson handed him.

“Calm down, young man,” Holmes said in his indolent voice, as he draped himself on his favourite chair, “it would be a pity to waste a good cup of Ceylon.”

"How can I think of tea, when the most abominable injustice is taking place in our city right now?" the man shouted, almost out of control.

As a doctor, I didn't struggle to recognize a hysteria attack, so I took his cup of tea and added a strong dose of brandy to it to calm his shaken nerves.

His emotional reaction annoyed Holmes, who didn’t bother to hide it.

“Then I suggest you cut the theatricals and go straight to the point.”

The man dabbed his sweaty forehead with a cotton handkerchief: “You must forgive me: I have never been in a similar situation in my life. My name is Elmer Carter, I’m the helper and the apprentice of Mr. Gilbert Bennett, a just man, who this morning was wrongly accused of murdering his wife, Mrs. Sophronia, and was brought to Scotland Yard. 

Mr. Holmes, I’m begging you to prove his innocence!”

Holmes tapped his lips with a finger, looking intently at our guest, so long that I myself began to feel uneasy.

“I need to know the facts first: what happened?” he finally asked.

“Mr. Bennett and I returned to London this morning at dawn from a three days business trip in France, we separated briefly, only to go to our houses and put our luggage down; then we had to go back to the parlour and open it. When I reached Mr. Bennett house, the police was arresting him!”

“How did the wife die?”

“The coroner said that she has been poisoned; the police is sure that Mr. Bennett is the culprit and will not investigate further, the scobberlotchers!"

Holmes moved a hand in the air, as if to hold back Mr Carter’s emotional burst.

I myself found his reaction to be excessive.

“A parlour. So Mr. Bennett is a tattooist,” Holmes interjected.

“Yes. He is not yet very well known, but he’s a talented artist and his fame is growing.”

Having lived in the East Indies for some time, I knew tattoos well enough: tattooing the body was a very common practice there, and their use had spread rapidly to London. [1]

It was certainly a fascinating custom, so much that I myself had cherished the idea of having one, but I had never found anything significant enough to want it imprinted on my skin forever, until…

But I’m digressing again, I’m afraid, so it’s better to go back to the events of that day, so as not to irk my beloved.

 

“And tell me, Mr. Carter, who is in charge of the investigation?” Holmes asked.

“It’s Inspector Youghal.”

Holmes closed his eyes, letting out an aggravated sigh, and I almost mimicked him: Inspector Youghal was tenacious, but not one of the brightest minds of the Metropolitan Police, I’m afraid.

My beloved, often complained about how Youghal theorized before knowing the facts, then he distorted them to make them adhere to his accusatory hypothesis.

“Not good news for us. However, if Inspector Youghal arrested Mr. Bennett, he must have found evidence that pushed him in that direction.”

“Heavens, do you also think he is guilty? This is outrageous! How could you call yourself a detective?”

Hearing him insulting Holmes, I couldn’t hold back: “Get a grip on yourself! Sherlock Holmes has no such preconceptions and his method of investigation has helped the police countless times.”

Holmes put a hand on my shoulder to placate my outburst; in the meantime, our guest had calmed down, but he continued his plea: “I swear to God, Mr Holmes: Mr. Bennett would never commit such a heinous crime!”

“This will be set at the end of my investigation,” Holmes said in a brisk voice, as to signal to Mr. Carter that the meeting was over.

“What? I haven't finished telling what happened.”

Holmes showed Mr. Carter the door, in a gentle but firm gesture: “I’m afraid that your judgment is too clouded by emotion: I need facts, and right now you’re unable to provide them, then I have to go and get them by myself. I will send you a telegram to let you know if there are any news.”

Shortly after, we were inside a growler, heading towards Scotland Yard. [2]

Holmes was silent for most of the journey, clearly focused on the case, and I had learned not to disturb his thoughts; however, shortly before arriving, he resurfaced from his reverie and leaned towards me with a mischievous smile, laying his large hand on my knee.

“My darling,” he whispered fondly, “I didn’t thank you for defending my honour, earlier.”

Not that I could do otherwise: it was instinctive for me to do it, every time some fool uttered evil words about a man so great and special.

I bowed my head and smiled: “You often accuse me of being emotional, but after meeting Mr. Carter, I hope you will change your mind. My words, I was afraid I had to hit him on the head with the brandy bottle to calm him!”

“So you missed the real reason for his agitation,” Holmes stated, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

“What do you mean?” I asked, but it was in vain, because we arrived at our destination, and Holmes went searching for Inspector Youghal.

The Scotland Yard officer was less than happy to see us, and he did nothing to hide it.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, I’m extremely sorry that Mr. Carter has wasted your time,” he said, after we explained the reason of our visit, “This case couldn’t be any simpler: the husband poisoned his wife this morning, at the end of the umpteenth argument between them.”

“Did Mr. Bennett confess?”   
"No, he proclaims himself innocent and accuses another man, but isn't that what all murderers do?"

“May I ask why are you so sure about your conclusion?”

"Do you doubt the way I conducted my investigation, Mr. Holmes?" He cried out, sounding outraged.

“Nothing like that, I'm here only to hear your conclusions, so I will have solid argumentations to appease my anxious client.”

I tightened my lips to avoid laughing: actually the only person that Holmes was trying to appease was the inspector himself, but Youghal was too simple a soul to notice, so he took Holmes's words as a compliment.

“Oh, you will have. The coroner has ascertained that Mrs. Sophronia died of poisoning and he’s trying to figure out which poison was used. As you already know, the husband is a tattooist, he handles toxic substances every day: mercury sulfide, chrome oxide, cadmium sulfide, camphor… you name one, he has it.”

“Tattooists aren’t the only people who handle these substances: if we were to arrest them all, very few workers would remain in London.”

“But this tattooists in particular had a nasty argument with his wife over money. You see, Mr. Holmes, the house where the Bennetts live, on Grosvenor Street in Mayfair, was owned by his wife, as it was a legacy of her late parents.

The husband claims to have received a tempting offer to sell the house by a Greek businessman, Mr. Misiti. He admitted he wanted to sell it, buy a more modest one and invest the money in enlarging the tattoo parlour, but his wife was against it, since the house belonged to her family. And here's the motive for the crime," the inspector bellowed, looking at Holmes with triumphant eyes.

However, Holmes didn’t seem impressed by the inspector's conclusions.  
"Mr. Bennett accuses another man: am I correct if I say that it is Mr. Misiti?"  
"Very conveniently, yes: exactly the Greek businessman who wanted to buy the house. Mr. Bennett claims to have spoken with him, telling that he would discuss the business with his wife, and when she refused to sell, he accepted her decision. However when he talked again with Mr. Misiti, he said the man was unbelievably furious, and insisted in a very rude, almost aggressive way that he wanted to buy the house, so much that Mr. Bennett asked him to leave.”

Holmes straightened up in his chair, suddenly interested.   
"A singular overreaction, considering that in Mayfair there are many other houses for sale, don’t you think?”   
"Listen to me, Mr. Holmes: honestly I don't think Mr. Misiti exists.”

“Oh?”

“Trust me: no one else has ever met him, except Mr. Bennett. Mrs. Sophronia’s maid says she never saw this man when she was working there, and this morning she was alone in the house with her maid, before Mr. Bennett returned. Furthermore, there is florist shop in front of the house, that opens very early in the morning: the owner says that, apart from Mr. Bennett, this morning nobody has entered or left the building. 

When we arrived, my men searched from the attic to the basement: no Greek man was found, and finally I’ve even sent some officers to Finsbury Circus, but no one has ever heard of Mr. Misiti. It’s just a fabrication.” [3]

“Yes, I'm sure you won't find him there,” Holmes said with an enigmatic smile.

I sensed that his words hid another meaning, but Youghal thought that he agreed with his conclusions and was extremely pleased.

“The course of events is clear: Mr. Bennett returns from a business trip, that may have gone wrong, asks his wife again to sell the house because he needs the money, she refuses and he poisons her, inventing an elusive Greek man to divert suspicion. Mr. Bennett is her only heir, since they were never blessed with children and all the relatives of Mrs. Sophronia are long dead. As I said, Mr. Carter wasted your time.”

“Good Doctor Watson here wouldn’t agree with you: a walk in the open air is a very healthy activity. Isn’t it, my old chap?”

I just nodded, even though we had arrived there in a growler.

Then, Holmes excused himself and we left the building.

“Actually, the healthy walk starts now, my dear,” he said as soon as we set foot on the pavement.

“Where are we headed?”

“To Mr. Bennett's house. I need to know more about it.”

“Well then, what do you think? Is Mr. Bennett innocent, like his assistant claims with such fervour?”

“In due course, my dear Watson.”

“Won't you share your thoughts with me?” I grumbled, not caring to hide my disappointment, but Holmes nudged me with his shoulder.

“I don't want to spoil the surprise for you.”

For the remaining journey, we were silent; Holmes was pensive again, surely he was reviewing the facts inside his mind.

I didn't know what to think about the case: Inspector Youghal hadn't allowed us to talk to the prisoner, so we couldn't get an idea of what kind of man Mr. Bennett was.

Of course, the fact that he had quarreled with his wife about money and that the mysterious Greek businessman didn’t seem to exist, was evidence against him: he had the opportunity and the motive to kill her.

I rang the bell and the maid came to open.

She was a woman in her forties, small and thin, with brown hair gathered in a neat bun. Her eyes were red rimmed and she still looked distraught. 

"Forgive the intrusion, Miss..." Holmes said, taking off his hat.

"Chapel."

"Miss Chapel, I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson, we work with Scotland Yard," he lied casually.

The woman hesitated: "Your colleagues have already been here this morning."

"But it’s better to be extremely scrupulous in this kind of investigation, don't you think?"

Being tall and having piercing gray eyes, Holmes knew how to intimidate with his presence alone, so the maid nodded shyly and ushered us into the living room, offering us a cup of tea.

"Are the bedrooms upstairs?" he asked, looking around.

"Yes, sir."

"When Mr. Bennett returned this morning, had you already awakened Mrs. Bennet?"

"No, poor missus didn't like waking up too early, so I always clean the kitchen and the pantry as soon as I arrive, in fact I was washing the dishes from yesterday; then Mr. Bennett arrived and said he would wake her up."

"What happened?"

"A moment later I heard a great commotion: Mr. Bennett was screaming, and I ran to see. Mrs. Sophronia laid on the bed, her body shaken by terrible spasms, and she died before I had the time to call a doctor.”

The maid started crying again, and I handed her a clean handkerchief.

Leaving the task to console her to me, Holmes stood up and examined some prints of the house hanging on the walls.

"Do I correctly understand that the house at one point was divided into two halves?" Holmes said, knocking on the partition. It gave a hollow sound.

"Uhm... yes," the maid mumbled, not particularly appreciating my beloved's insensitivity of her crying.

I wished I could tell her that sometimes I felt the same.

“When?” Holmes insisted.

"Six years ago, just before they got married: the house had been uninhabited for years before they decided to come and live here, and it was in poor shape, besides it was too big for a single family, so they divided it and rented the left wing.”

“And was it profitable?”

“For some years it was, then the tenants started to leave.”

"For what reason?"

"Oh, the most disparate: one complained of the bad smell, one was assaulted twice nearby, another one had his bicycle stolen. The rumors spread and it was increasingly difficult to find new tenants.”

“When did it start to go wrong?”

“I don't know exactly, maybe six months ago.”

"And they started fighting over money, because the tattoo parlour is still new and little known, and didn’t make enough."

"It was unpleasant," Miss Chapel admitted.

“Because there was less money, your working hours here were reduced: you used to be here every day, while now you come from time to time,” Holmes noted.

"Yes: on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. How did you guess?"

"I don’t guess, I deduce," Holmes remarked in a icy voice, and I hid a smile behind my cup of tea; then my beloved proceeded to make a show of his deductive ability.

"Overall the house is clean and tidy, but the tablecloth hasn’t been changed recently, there is an old tea stain on the carpet, and dust in the corners, on the curtains and behind the ornaments, that are not moved around during the dusting, all signs of approximation, due to a cursory work."

"I do what I can, Mr. Holmes!"

"I'm not questioning it."

But the maid’s cheeks had bright red spots, a proof of her inner turmoil, so I tried to mollify her.

“This house is much cleaner than our apartment, and certainly it’s not easy, with so little time to do everything.”

“Indeed.”

Then I proceeded to praise the cleanliness of the windows, to lift the spirit of the poor maid, while Holmes detoured into the pantry and came back a little later with a open jar of fruit preserve and a tin box of home baked biscuits.

"Did you make these?"

Miss Chapel frowned again, as if she was seeing those items for the first time.

"No sir.”

"Can Mrs Bennett have made them?"

The maid shook her head vigorously: "My poor missus couldn’t cook a lot. Where did you find them?"

"In a cupboard."

"I do the grocery, and on Friday afternoon, when I left, that food wasn’t here. It could be a gift from one of Mr Bennet’s clients. Much more whimsical items have arrived in this house."

It wasn’t difficult to understand that Miss Chapel didn’t have much appreciation for Mr. Bennett’s job.

However, Holmes ignored her, sniffed the content of the jar, brought the biscuits and the fruit preserve back to the pantry, then knelt in front of the fireplace.

"The ash hasn’t yet been removed."

"This has been a shocking day for me, Mr. Holmes, I had other things to think about!" The woman cried, very agitated again.

"To be honest, this is excellent news for us."

He picked up a piece of sturdy paper blackened by the embers and wrapped it carefully in his pocket handkerchief, then he smiled at me, "Come Watson, we're done here."

"Done?" asked Miss Chapel, bewildered, "But you asked nothing about the crime or where Mr. Bennett keeps the chemicals for the ink."

"You're wrong, my dear, I now have all the elements I need. Remember to turn off the lights before leaving and don’t touch anything. Police order."

After leaving the building, Holmes approached a young street boy and gave him some coins, whispering some instructions, and sent him to Saffron Hill; I had never seen him, but he was certainly part of the Baker Street Irregulars. [4]

Then we were at home again, where Mrs. Hudson handed me a telegram: one of my patients required a home visit, and I couldn’t refuse.

Meanwhile Holmes sat at the microscope and was mixing chemicals, so I left him to his studies.

When I returned home, I was appalled: our living room had never been tidy, much to the dismay of our landlady, but now it seemed that a monsoon had gone through it.

There were old newspapers open on the crime page, police reports (Heavens know why they were in our home) and mugshots scattered everywhere, so many that it was hard to walk without stepping on them. 

Holmes sat in his favorite chair in the middle of the chaos, smoking seraphically his pipe.

"Holmes!" I shouted, "what happened here?"

“Ah, my dear Watson, just in time for the conclusion of the case. Come with me, I have already sent a telegram to Mr. Carter and Inspector Youghal.”

"We cannot leave such a mess!"

"Now, my dear Watson, I would say that demonstrating a man's innocence is more important."

"So you solved the case!"

"Only a small but fundamental piece is missing. Let's go now, timing is crucial, and bring your gun: I sense we could need it."

We met the Scotland Yard inspector and our client not far from the Bennetts house.

The first one was openly upset about being there, because he considered the investigation closed, the second was so pale and nervous that I feared he would collapse in the middle of the street.

"Why are we here? Now you are wasting my time, Mr. Holmes!" Youghal shouted.

"Please, grant me an hour of your precious day, inspector, and everything will be clear to you. As for you, Mr. Carter, you must promise that from this moment on, you will not make a sound until everything is done: Mr. Bennett's future is at stake."

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, I trust you."

"Let’s go in," Holmes explained, "then we’ll have to wait."

"Wait for what?" Mr. Carter asked. 

"For whom, Mr. Carter. Let's say we’re expecting an unannounced guest."

"And how do we get into the house?" asked the inspector.

"Miss Chapel was so kind as to leave me a copy of the keys," Holmes said in a soft voice.

It was a lie: he must have taken the keys while wandering around the house and I was talking to the maid, but obviously I said nothing, just looking at him with unchanged fondness: I knew his deviations from the rules were for good.

Once in the hallway, Holmes explained his plan: "Now each of us will hide in a room, so as not to be visible from the door or the window, and will remain absolutely still. It’s essential that the house seems empty. If you hear or you see someone come into your room, you will know that he’s not one of us, then I am sure you will understand by yourself when to act.”

He refused to say more, so we parted: me in the living room, Mr. Carter in the little study, Holmes and Youghal in the upstairs rooms.

After a while, I heard a noise coming from the front door and my hand instinctively ran to my gun: there was undoubtedly someone entering the house.

Was it the unexpected guest? How did Holmes know someone was coming? And what did he want?

The light beam of a bullseye lantern lit up the cupboard for an instant, then I heard light footsteps heading upstairs: my instinct told me to follow the intruder, but then I remembered Holmes' words and stayed where I was.

The footsteps stopped in the bedroom above the living room, where Inspector Youghal was hiding; something heavy was placed on the ground and shortly after a dull blow startled me.

At that point I ran up the stairs, almost colliding with Mr. Carter.

"I got him! I got him!" Youghal shouted, and Holmes entered the bedroom holding a candelabrum to shed light, while I ran to help the inspector to block a struggling man.

We lifted him from the floor and turned his face towards the light.

He was short, stocky, with a thick black beard and small, dark eyes; at the man's feet there was a duffel bag containing a large hammer and other burglary tools.

"Who are you and what are you doing in this house? Explain yourself!" Youghal bellowed, shaking the man by the shoulder, but he remained silent, looking around with hostile eyes.

Holmes put the candlestick on the bedside table, and his lips lifted up in a knowing smirk.

"Gentlemen, I have the pleasure to introduce you Mr. Mesiti."

"You mean Mr. Misiti," Youghal corrected him, but Holmes shook his head.

"No, it’s Mr. Mesiti, and he is not Greek, he is Italian."

"I don’t understand..." Youghal stammered.

"Well, well, apparently I have to explain everything. It doesn't matter, we have time: if you go to ask about Mr. Mesiti in the Italian Quarter, they will tell you a lot about him. He is a well-known burglar, rather skilled both in ransacking the houses, and in hiding the stolen goods. 

A brief check on some old newspapers allowed me to remember that six years ago he was arrested for stabbing a man during a brawl at the Docklands, and he was released from prison six months ago.

For him it must have been an unpleasant surprise to discover that the abandoned house where he used to hide the stolen goods was no longer abandoned."

Holmes stood in front of our burglar, and he snarled angrily, so much so that I tightened my grip on his shoulder to remind him that he was in no position to do anything.

"What he was looking for was well hidden in a master wall of this house and couldn’t be removed discreetly,” Holmes went on, “therefore all the people in the house had to be gone, in one way or another.

First, he started with harassing the tenants: dead animals in the wall gaps to spread nauseating miasmas, assaults and thefts to convince them that this wasn’t a safe quarter, and they were gone.

But keeping the owners away from their home wasn’t as easy. He presented an offer to buy the house, but Mrs. Bennett's tenacious refusal was a problem.

Of course, if the wife had been killed, the first suspect would have been her husband..."

"I wasn't here this morning," Mesiti said, uttering his first words, "and I have people who can testify."

"This is true, Mr. Holmes," Youghal intervened, "no one saw this man here this morning."

“That’s because he didn't need to be here. Mrs. Bennett wasn’t poisoned this morning, but more than 24 hours ago. In fact, if the coroner wants to do a more in-depth examination of the corpse, he will find that she died because of the Kerner’s disease, due to the toxin in the fruit preserve that’s in the pantry and that you, Mr. Mesiti, gifted to Mrs. Bennett. [5]

You opened a jar of preserve in your house and you realized that it had developed the toxin, probably thanks to the smell of rancid butter, so you brought it to Mrs. Bennett with the biscuits, on Saturday or Sunday, taking advantage of her husband's and maid’s absence, pretending to apologize for shouting when you wanted to buy the house.

They were used to receiving gifts from Mr. Bennett's customers and so she didn't suspect anything.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“Actually, I can: the gift was accompanied by a note. Mrs. Bennett threw it into the fireplace, but it didn't burn completely, so it’s possible to compare the handwriting on the note with that of the report of your release from prison, signed by you.

Furthermore, people don’t prepare just one single jar of preserves, but many. If Inspector Youghal wants to send one of his men to your home, he will find the same jars, and maybe also the same paper used to write the note.

Not to mention that you have entered the house knowing exactly where to look for stolen goods, and I think this evidence is enough for a jury to convict you.”

"I will immediately do all that I must, Mr. Holmes," said the inspector, who had realized that he had arrested an innocent man without solid evidence and he had to remedy the mistake.

 

From the Bennett’s house wall, stolen goods from ten different thefts were recovered, after many hours of police interrogation, Mesiti confessed everything, and then Mr. Bennett could be released.

I also joined the coroner in a new autopsy of Mrs. Bennett's corpse and together we concluded that the spasms that had led to her death were caused by Kerner's disease and not by any of Mr. Bennett's chemicals.

He and Mr. Carter were expected at Baker Street, as they wanted to thank Holmes.

"One last thing is not clear to me," I said as I finished tidying up the living room.

"Tell me, my darling."

"Why did Mr. Bennett say he talked to a Greek man? It confused the police, leading it to believe that the real culprit was a fabrication."

"Ah, just an unfortunate misunderstanding, my dear Watson: for Mr. Bennett it must not be easy to distinguish between immigrants. Hearing Mesiti's heavy accent, he thought he was Greek and he also mistook his last name. An almost fatal imprudence, that should teach us all to be better observers."

The visit of the two men was short, because Holmes didn’t like to linger in excessive formalities, and once the investigation was completed, he immediately lost interest in the case.

However, while the two guests were leaving, he spoke in a casual tone: "Mr. Bennett can carry on the mourning widower character, but you, Mr. Carter, should spread the rumor of having a fiancee, maybe French, since you go often to Paris for work. It’s more prudent."

They froze in the doorway, and I with them.

Then the two men looked at each other, and Mr. Carter nodded slowly.

"It’s a good advice."

When they were outside, waiting for a cab, I slowly closed the door.

"You knew it."

"It was evident from Mr. Carter's agitation."

“Your advice was kind."

"Given the young man's emotion, it was also very necessary, my dear Watson."

 

The adventure didn’t end there, not entirely.

I saw Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carter a few weeks later. The house had been sold and the business of the tattoo parlour was increasing.

And I finally found something significant enough to want it on my skin forever.

That evening, in the privacy of my bedroom, I showed it to Holmes. It was a branch of globe amaranth, in scarlet ink.

“It means…” I started, but Holmes silenced me, claiming my mouth in a loving kiss.

“I know.”

Globe amaranth represented eternal love, and the scarlet ink was to remember our first case, the one that brought us together.

“My beloved,” Holmes whispered, touching the tattoo.

I will not say more, leaving to your imagination how the evening ended, but I sincerely hope that more forgiving times will come, and that one day the true story can be told.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] As weird as it can sound today, during the Victorian age, tattoos were quite popular, especially among the women of the upper class.
> 
> [2] A growler was a type of carriage.
> 
> [3] London quarter where the majority of Greek immigrants lived back then. Like any foreign community, people of the same nationality tended to live in the same place.
> 
> [4] London Italian quarter during the Victorian age.
> 
> [5] Botulism was once known as Kerner’s disease, from the name of the scientist who studied it thoroughly.


End file.
